


Jumpers

by yourdykeinshiningarmor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Presents, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, sherlock being cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 07:55:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2843744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourdykeinshiningarmor/pseuds/yourdykeinshiningarmor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is acting a little off as Christmas draws near and a strange item appears in the flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jumpers

**Author's Note:**

> Another short one-off inspired by the Christmas season. Please let me know what you think with kudos, comments, or at my [ Tumblr ](http://yourdykeinshiningarmor.tumblr.com/). Constructive criticism is also much appreciated. Thanks, I hope you enjoy, and Merry Christmas!
> 
>  
> 
> NOTE: I have updated this fic. No changes, just cleaned it up a bit :)

John walked through the front door of 221B and shuddered as the warmth of the flat made him realize how cold it was outside. He fluttered his coat and stomped his feet against the mat at the base of the stairs to remove what he could of the slushy snow that had accumulated on his walk home from the surgery.  As he ascended the stairs, there was a thud and the sound of breaking china, followed by a muted curse. The doctor took the remaining stairs two at a time, wondering what Sherlock had gotten into this time. He burst through the door of the sitting room only to see Sherlock sitting calmly in his chair, long fingers steepled under his chin, nothing seemingly out of place.

“What was that?” John asked, air huffing in and out of his lungs. He really needed to start running again.

“What was what?” returned Sherlock, eyes burning a hole into the kitchen wall.

“That noise… there was a crash!” John’s piercing eyes searched the flat, looking for signs of fire, destruction, or other Sherlock-induced mayhem. He spun on his feet, searching each corner, before turning back to his disobliging flat mate. “Well?!”

Sherlock lowered his hands, finally rounding his face towards John. “I may have dropped something.”

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, “What did you drop?” He took a step towards Sherlock as he renewed his search; he refocused his gaze on the great oaf’s surroundings, desperately trying to see _under_ the chair Sherlock was currently planted in.

“Nothing of consequence.” The detective locked eyes with the doctor, giving John his most imposing gaze.

John returned the stare with equal measure, not wanting to let Sherlock get away with what was likely another experiment gone wrong.

Sherlock’s eyes twitched. “I may have broken a teacup,” he said, hoping this would be enough for the doctor. After several more tense minutes, where neither man felt the need to relent, Sherlock finally let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding and lowered his gaze. “John,” he started, obviously choosing his words with care, “I promise you that all is well. I may have knocked over the table and broken a cup in my haste, but it is not something I wish to discuss at the moment. Additionally, I can assure you that nothing of consequence has been broken, damaged, or lost.” He lifted his eyes to meet with John’s intensely blue ones. “I swear it.”

John held the almost silver eyes for a moment longer before visibly relaxing. “Alright, I believe you.” He continued forward and leaned down to place a chaste kiss on side of the lush cupid bow before heading to the kitchen to start the kettle. The two men were still navigating through the finer workings of the new relationship they found themselves in. The detective was striving to be more honest and communicative, while John still struggled with the idea that touching and admiring his _most definitely male_ flatmate was not only okay, but highly pleasurable (to both of them).

“Any new cases, then?” John asked, settling into his chair across from Sherlock, after he placed a second cup on the small table between them for the detective.

“Unfortunately, no,” Sherlock rose dramatically from his chair, grabbed his cup of tea, and began pacing in front of the fireplace, somehow, without spilling a drop. John merely chuckled, allowing the aroma from the tea to relax his nerves.

\-------------

It was over a week later before John realized that his consulting detective was acting odd, even for the self-proclaimed sociopath. There were increasing numbers of patients with seasonal maladies that John was treating at the surgery, keeping him far later every night than he was accustomed to. Meanwhile, the criminal underground of London seemed to be taking the holiday season to heart and showing good will towards their fellow men, the consequence being a sharp decrease in crime. Surprisingly, Sherlock was not throwing a fit at the lack of John in his life currently or moping about complaining of boredom.

It was a couple days before Christmas and John had left the surgery early after a painful, but thankfully slow, day. He was off now until after the New Year and more than happy to start his at home holiday a little early. Sherlock had texted him earlier saying he would be out for the afternoon “doing research” but would be home in time for dinner if John wanted to get take away.

John hung his coat by the door and strode over the grate to stoke the fire. 221B was a drafty flat but somehow a roaring fire kept the place warm and cozy. As he stood up, he glanced at the mantle and furrowed his eyebrows at what he saw. He picked up two short and slim metal rods and nimbly spun them around in his fingers. Each had a small hook on the end, one being slightly smaller than the other. They were familiar but he had to rack his brain to remember from where. _Ah, crochet hooks_. His mother and grandmother had both crocheted, although it had been many long years since he had seen the dainty hooks.

“Yoo-hoo,” Mrs. Hudson called, her slightly uneven gait sounding on the stairs. “Is that you, John?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson.” John turned from the mantle, hooks still in hand, and made his way to the door.

The elderly woman crashed through the door with an energy that belied her age, and her arms were burdened with several boxes and platters.

“Jesus, Mrs. Hudson!” John scrambled over to her to relieve her of some of her parcels. “I would have come down to help!”

“Oh, nonsense, dearie,” she cooed, walking into the kitchen. “I can manage just fine. Just wanted to bring you boys a little bit of something to get you through the holiday.” Plates and containers of cookies, mince pies, and other edibles soon littered the small piece of countertop that John had taped off and labeled as **Food only, no experiments Sherlock!**

John shuffled about the kitchen, trying to find space to store their spoils, when he heard Mrs. Hudson again traipsing up the stairs; he hadn’t even realized she’d left. He turned just as the landlady was setting an armful of wrapped boxes on the table.

“I’m leaving for my sister’s house and won’t be back ‘til after Christmas. I brought you boys your presents. I left you some crackers as well.” She turned to John all smiles. “I’ve left some things for Mr. Holmes and the Inspector, would you be a love and make sure they get them?”

John smiled back, wondering how he’d been so lucky and to get Mrs. Hudson not only as a landlady but also their unofficial caretaker. Not that she would admit it, _not your housekeeper_ after all. “Absolutely.”

There was honk outside, signifying the arrival of her taxi. “Oh, got to go, dear!” She turned to leave and was halfway down the stairs before John stopped her.

“Oi! Mrs. Hudson!” He stopped at the top of the landing. “You’ve forgot your crochet hooks!” He waved the small rods over the edge of the railing.

She glanced up and began shaking her head, “Those aren’t mine, I never did learn to properly knit or crochet. Mother was always furious about that!” She laughed at unmentioned memories as she continued down the stairs. Before John could say anymore, she had her bags in hand and heading out the door. “Happy Christmas, John! Give my love to Sherlock for me!” And with that she was gone.

“Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hudson,” John said to no one. He turned back to the living room, absently spinning the rods in his hand. He turned towards the pile of brightly wrapped boxes on the table and huffed out a laugh. Mrs. Hudson had overdone it again. He heard another noise on the stairs; the footfalls were heavier this time and taking the stairs two at a time.

“John, are you home alr-" Sherlock stopped. “Dear God, what happened?” He moved further into the flat. “Did a Christmas shoppe explode in the kitchen?” His eyes darted from the boxes to the pile of crackers to the plates of food on the counter.

“No,” John laughed. “Just Mrs. Hudson. She sends her love by the way. You’ve just missed her. She’s off to her sister’s for the holiday.”

Sherlock grunted an agreement and began lifting gifts from the table, twisting and shaking them, trying to deduce the contents.

“Oi! Stop that!” John grabbed the box from his hands setting it back on the table. “No deducing, that spoils the surprise.”

The detective grunted again before twirling himself around and making his way to the couch. Once there, he gracefully flopped onto the abused piece of furniture, limbs splayed at awkward angles.

John laughed at the display, shaking his head in his mirth. He looked down and realized he still had the hooks loosely held in his right hand.

“Say,” he turned to Sherlock, “do you know where these came from? They weren’t Mrs. Hudson’s, I asked before she left.” He held up the offending pieces of metal so the man could see.

Sherlock tensed momentarily before springing up the couch a flurry of limbs and coat tails. He took three long strides across the room and nimbly plucked the hooks from John’s fingers. “It’s for a case!” He slipped the metal rods into one of the pockets of his coat.

“A case? You didn’t tell me about a case?” John looked at Sherlock, confusion spreading across his face. He was momentarily hurt that he had been left to suffer at the surgery while Sherlock worked a case.

“It’s… it’s for a… a cold case,” Sherlock stammered, offering no further details. He turned and headed out the side door of the kitchen.

John simply looked Sherlock, not sure what to think. He wasn’t sure he believed the man, but then again there were weirder objects around the flat then a pair of crochet hooks.

“O-Ok.” It was all he could manage to get out. He frowned, thinking, “Is that why you’ve been eerily quiet lately?” Sherlock froze where he was in the hallway, halfway to his room. John turned to face him. “The cold cases have been keeping you occupied?”

Sherlock spun, staring back at John, momentarily lost for words. “Yes,” he replied, “yes, of course.” Before John could ask or say anything more, Sherlock strode the remaining distance to his room and firmly shut the door.

John stared at the space recently voided by the detective for several minutes before turning around and making the executive decision to order take away for the two of them.

\-------------

John took the last of the dishes into the kitchen before heading back to the table. He had convinced Sherlock to have Greg and Mycroft over for Christmas dinner. More amazing was the fact that the boys had been more or less civil with each other; John and Greg intervened only a handful of times to keep their respective Holmes under control. The atmosphere of the flat had improved greatly once several glasses of scotch had passed the lips of all involved; everyone had started to actually relaxed.

John stopped behind Sherlock, hesitated a moment, then decided to drape his arms around the detective’s shoulders. He felt braver about the move after noticing that Greg had discretely placed his hand on the older Holmes’s thigh under the table. It was no secret that the two pairs were seeing each other, it was simply the lingering habit of not showing physical affection in the presence of others that made them hesitate. The younger Holmes leaned back into the doctor’s chest, enjoying the warmth radiating through the back of his shirt.

“Shall we open presents?” asked John. He looked to the other two, knowing Sherlock had been ready since eyeing the pile that Mrs. Hudson had left. He was fairly certain the man below him started to vibrate.

A huge smile broke across Greg’s face. “Thought you’d never ask.” The DI barely finished his sentence before silver streaked hair was bouncing across the flat to the small tree John had set up in the corner.

“He’s almost worse than Sherlock, I’ll have you know,” Mycroft said towards John, lifting himself to his feet and discreetly shifting his belt.

“That’s because not all of us live for the Christmas feast, Mycr-” A sharp slap to Sherlock’s chest acted as a reminder from John for Sherlock to shut it and behave himself. Sherlock merely harrumphed in acknowledgement.

Soon Greg had placed a small pile of brightly wrapped boxes at each man’s feet. Mycroft and Greg sat on the couch, the Inspector reclining on the arm while propping his feet up into the ginger-haired man’s lap.

“Gregory,” he said, turning his head to face the older man. “This arrangement is hardly conducive to opening the provided gifts.”

Greg giggled before removing his feet from the top of Mycroft’s legs and tucking his toes under his thigh instead.

Mycroft shook his head and smiled.

Sherlock had gravitated to his chair and John joined him, sitting on a cushion on the floor between the detective’s legs. John settled back into the warmth, relishing the feel of thin fingers gently rubbing the nape of his neck.

The men took turns opening gifts, honest ohs and ahs escaping as each item was revealed. It was a good hall for all of them; each ended with several newly coveted items, including a couple pairs of wool socks from Mrs. Hudson. They even bickered a bit about trading colors with each other before settling into a comfortable silence.

Full bellies and the warm fire soon had each couple fixating more on their partners. Sherlock had moved from rubbing John’s neck to carding his fingers through John’s hair and massaging his scalp. The doctor’s eyes were half closed and his head was lolling to one side. Greg had spun himself around to lean against Mycroft’s shoulder, watching as he flipped though his new book on obscure government cover-ups and drawing lazy circles on the younger man’s thigh.

It was Mycroft who finally broke the silence. “Gregory, I think it is time to go,” throwing a small smile towards the older man.

Greg nodded in agreement before looking over at the other two men in the room.

John lifted his head at hearing voices, needing a moment to understand the words. “There’s a box of mince pies for you,” he finally said as he pulled himself off the floor, knees cracking after being in an unaccustomed position for so long. _I’m getting too old for this_. He padded to the kitchen and retrieved the box before making his goodbyes. John saw the two men out and wished them a final Happy Christmas before returning to the living room to find Sherlock pacing the fireplace and a single wrapped present in John’s chair.

“What’s this?” John picked up the package and it sagged a bit in his hand.

“One last gift for you.” Sherlock turned, apprehension clear upon his face. “I, um, didn’t want to give it you earlier.” He turned back towards the fire, afraid to watch as John opened the gift.

John turned it over in his hands. It was something squashy but obviously had some size to it. He plucked at the ribbon, undoing the perfect bow. Finding one of the edges of the paper, he gently pulled until the tape gave way and opened up one side. He reached in and his hand closed on something soft; he gave it a tug and removed it from its cocoon of paper. John’s jaw dropped as the soft mass unfurled in his hand.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John breathed. In his hand, the doctor held a cream and scarlet knitted jumper. _Crocheted in all likelihood_. He gripped it by the shoulders and turned it to see the design on the front.

Sherlock turned at John’s whisper, taking in his awed reaction.

“You made this?” John locked eyes with Sherlock.

“Yes,” he whispered back. “There may have been an incident with your other scarlet jumper several months back.” He took a step towards John before continuing, “I meant to replace it, but all the available options were equally _hideous_.”

John giggled. “So you made me one instead?” equal parts amazement and disbelief in his voice.

Sherlock nodded. “It was the most logical answer.”

“Where did you learn how to do this?” John looked more closely at the pattern on the front, tilting his head for a moment while he pondered it.

Sherlock muttered an answer that John didn’t catch.

“Hmm, what?” John met Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock pressed his lips together for a moment before mumbling a bit louder. “YouTube.”

John laughed a knowing laugh. “There is nothing you can’t learn from that damned website anymore.” Sherlock laughed with him. John took a step forward and placed a kiss on the detective’s warm mouth.  “Thank you,” he breathed into the space between their lips, a smile parting his own.

John stepped back, looking again at the pattern on the front. The top half was cream colored while the bottom was scarlet.  Where the two met on the front, the scarlet and cream yarn swirled together, and the islands of color became smaller as they traveled up the jumper towards the collar. “What’s this pattern supposed to be anyways?”

Sherlock stood in silence, mouth opening and closing twice before he managed an umm.

John stared at it a moment longer before comprehension dawned on him. “Is this a blood splatter pattern?!” he asked in astonishment.

Sherlock’s silence was the only answer he needed.

John chuckled again and grabbed Sherlock’s hand. “Only you would teach yourself to crochet and proceed to take that knowledge to make me a blood splatter jumper as the superior option in available jumper design.”

Sherlock stared at John, not really knowing how to respond.

John looked at him for a moment longer before a broad smile broke across his face. “And I love it.”

After a moment, Sherlock’s face mirrored John’s as the blonde man tugged him towards the bedroom.


End file.
